A Study In Song
by xFutureDreamingx
Summary: Multiple one-shots with songs as prompts. All have real plots, mostly surrounding John and Sherlock. Other pairings if the song fits. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and various others.
1. Toxic

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Mostly one-shot songfics, surrounding John and Sherlock. Possible variations in the future. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and all the usual favourites.

**A/N:** This one is inspired by Toxic by Yael Naim (16 Bit Remix). It's completely different from the Britney Spears original, so give it a try if you like. I know what you're thinking. Don't think that. :)

**Toxic**

"_Baby can't you see, I'm falling._

_A guy like you should wear a warning._

_It's dangerous, I'm fallin'."_

John sat on the sofa, his head reeling as the alcohol began to set in. His eyes were unsteady as they tried to focus on the union jack cushion on his chair. He squinted, the action causing his sense of balance to waver and he shot out a hand to rest on the coffee table so as to steady himself. As he did so, he caught sight of Sherlock's laptop open on the kitchen table. His blog was open and there was another cipher code of some kind displayed there. Subconsciously, John's heart began to flutter at the thought of his dark-haired flatmate, and so he grabbed his glass, and the bottle, and poured himself another scotch. He tipped his head back, letting the liquid burn his throat as it slid down. 

As the glass slammed down on the hard surface, it caused a wave of nausea to ripple through his body. He gulped, the action very audible in the currently-empty flat. Not thinking at all, John braced himself and stood up in one sweeping move. He stumbled backwards, his calves bouncing back against the sofa cushions. Recovered, he made his way over to the kitchen, his gaze set firmly on the laptop sat there accusingly upon the, for once, empty tabletop. This should have made John stop and wonder for a second; Sherlock's experiments never left that table, so what had happened? But of course, all reason had fled him the moment his lips touched the golden nectar of life twenty minutes ago. In his inebriated state, John felt like the laptop was seducing him into coming closer, into making him reveal all of its secrets, if Sherlock was stupid enough to even put anything like that on the hard-drive. Why would he, when he had his own tucked safely inside his head where no one could reach it? John felt a compulsion to devour all of the information he could find from Sherlock's laptop, if only to get a glimpse of the rush he got just from being in the same room as him.

John's fingers fumbled over the keys on the laptop, opening up multiple tabs on the internet and possibly adding numerous blank or illiterate entries into 'The Science Of Deduction', under the name of the one and only Consulting Detective in the world. Would anyone be reading and notice the odd behaviour of the high-functioning sociopath? Obviously they would, but maybe not until later, it was quite late now as it was. Who would be up at this hour? Just as John was about to click on another of the open tabs, a comment was made on one of his 'entries'. He blinked, confused enough without this interruption. He opened it, staring at the screen as much as he could with his head swimming, not to mention his vision being slightly impaired. Apparently this person, 'Anonymous', if that was even a name_, _was up late enough and happened to be on Sherlock's website at the time of the drunken fumbling.

"John, go to bed. You know you shouldn't be doing this."

As John read the comment aloud, he noticed that his words were slurred and he unconsciously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before leaning against the table with both hands. It was almost impossible for him to think in this state, so he had no idea who would know that it was him making these entries. There were no cameras implanted in the flat that he knew of, and so far he knew that there was no one with him in the flat. He glanced behind him, as if just to make sure, but then turned back. Focusing entirely on the keyboard, John typed in a reply, reading it to himself as he did, in hopes that it would help him to make better sense of it.

"Who is this? Why are you on Sherlock's blog?"

What John didn't see was that what he had typed looked something more along the lines of this; Whkjo iss thgis? WHYl ARE UKY NIO SHHEROLOCK'S BLOGOOG?

He waited for a reply, his mind becoming a little clearer. He decided that he didn't want to do this in a sober state, so he walked back into the living room, took up the bottle and glass, and then returned to the laptop. He set them aside, after taking another long gulp of course, and then a comment blinked onto the screen.

"That's not important. Please John, just do as I say. I don't want to see the consequences of you drinking lying on the kitchen floor."

John frowned, taking another sip and sighing as he felt a familiar buzz in his mind. The conversation went on for a while between him and 'Anonymous', well mostly the latter, seeing as John was in no fit state to make a conversation at all. Finally, the 'Anonymous' commenter stopped replying and John just stood there, feeling no more at ease than he had before. He still had up multiple tabs on the laptop, but he closed them, knowing he'd find nothing there. Something started to pull at his mind and so he looked at the desktop, noticing something that he hadn't before. There was a single file, labelled only as DJHW. Something was familiar about those letters, but all he really cared about was opening the damn thing. He wanted to know something about Sherlock that the man wouldn't know he knew. Something had come over John some time ago, constantly attracting John to the danger that was Sherlock Holmes. He never really admitted it, because it disturbed him greatly, but now there was nothing between him and his desire. He double clicked on the file but as it loaded he was interrupted.

"John?"

At the sound of the deep baritone, a shiver ran down John's spine that he fought to ignore for the moment. He turned slowly, carefully pushing all evidence of the alcohol behind him. Sherlock was removing his coat, stuffing his gloves into its pockets and then hanging it on the back of his bedroom door.

"Sherrrr- Ahem, Sherlock."

Showing no reaction to his drunken slur apart from a raised eyebrow, Sherlock approached him, both hands in his trouser pockets. He came within five inches of John's body and so John had to hold his breath. As if it was an afterthought, Sherlock reached behind him and pulled the laptop off the table. He scanned the screen for a second before replacing it where it had come from. He stood staring at John, his whole body screaming 'Whatcha gonna do?'. Well, that's what John thought anyway.

"Find anything interesting on your search through my laptop?"

John gulped again, louder this time now that his heart was practically beating in his ears and Sherlock's gaze was boring into him, holding him captive.

"I, er, um, I don't know what-"

"Oh, come on John, spare me all that. Do you really think I'm that thick? It _is_ me, remember."

John blinked, not noticing how he was leaning slightly forwards towards the taller man. He didn't want to confess that, yes, he had been raiding Sherlock's laptop for an insight, just a tiny glimpse, into who the man was, but he knew there was no use lying to the Consulting Detective. He could see through him like a window.

"Well, I just. Ah..."

"If you wanted to get to know me, you need just have asked."

Sherlock actually smirked at him then, his grey eyes glinting with amusement. John tried taking a step back, but forgot that he was stood against the table, so his behind knocked into the wood and that made a grating sound where it scraped against the floor. He flinched, knowing all too well that Sherlock would be watching his every move and analysing everything he did. This was not a good situation to be in, it was going to end all too badly and -

Sherlock had moved in, the last thing John seeing was an almost predatory grin on his face. Their lips collided, at first just skin on skin, nothing more than a slight pressure moving every now and then together in a slow motion. But then John realised what was happening. He woke up from his frozen stupor and moved his mouth against Sherlock's, bringing his hands up to rest hesitantly on the other man's hips. Sherlock smiled against his mouth, bringing both his hands up, resting on either side of John's face. Their breath mingled together, hot against both men's faces. He felt Sherlock's tongue on his bottom lip, so he opened his mouth, allowing the man entrance. They fell into sync easily, and John tried so very hard not to lose himself completely. If this wasn't real, he wanted to enjoy and savour every single moment of it. Soon, John was sat on the table, the laptop pushed back and the alcohol spilt over the table and onto the floor. Sherlock was stood between his legs, so close that it was impossible for him to get any closer. Apart from if you _really_ had him, thought John. At that thought, a certain part of him which was dangerously near Sherlock now seemed to come alive and a moan escaped his parted lips, causing him to pull away with embarrassment. He ducked his head, not wanting to see Sherlock's reaction, which would inevitably be one that would humiliate John. He sat there for a tense moment, both hands placed purposefully in his lap and heat rising in his cheeks. He felt soft fingers under his chin and his head was tipped up, his eyes now locking with those of Sherlock, seeming to keep him held in place. But then he felt the need rising again, the all-too-familiar rush of adrenaline, or whatever it was, flaring up into his chest and clenching there painfully. He jumped forwards off the table, flying into Sherlock's waiting arms. They became a heated tangle of skin, teeth and tongues, their clothes becoming an annoying barrier to their desires. The Consulting Detective pulled John backwards, a growl forming in his throat when John grasped his rear in anticipation. They practically fell into Sherlock's room, John's breathy laugh echoing in the flat as the dark-haired man forcefully slammed the bedroom door shut.

"_Intoxicate me now, with your lovin' now._

_I think I'm ready now, I think I'm ready now._

_Intoxicate me now, with your lovin' now._

_I think I'm ready now..."_

**A/N:** So, this didn't really turn out the way I expected! There was a lot more slash than I thought there would be. And I didn't really get much plotline in. But I hope it was good for a first chapter! Feel free to give me some advice and/or criticisms.


	2. Jealousy

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Mostly one-shot songfics, surrounding John and Sherlock. Possible variations in the future. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and all the usual favourites.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the TV show, Sherlock, or any of the songs I may use in these fics. And I don't claim to. Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the songs to their artists/bands.

**A/N:** Ever since I first heard this, it reminded me of John and Sherlock oh so much! So this came into play. The song is Jealousy by Will Young. :) By the way, these chapters are in no way related to each other, unless clearly stated so.

**Jealousy**

"_I take it all back, all that I said,_

_It comes out too fast._

_So I just couldn't help the way that I felt,_

_I started the fire."_

"I don't see why you just don't go and live with her, then! Go and have a perfectly boring, mundane life in a stupid little boring house with dull-as-dishwater Sarah!"

These two long sentences replayed in Sherlock's mind as he paced the living room, surely engraving two track marks into the floor where his feet were striding over and over again. He growled in frustration every now and then, and his hands were constantly tugging at his hair as if he was going to pull it out. It was such unusual behaviour for him to act like this, but he couldn't seem to break out of it. Him and John had barely been back at the flat for ten minutes before the argument had erupted and insults had been hurled at each other, both men seething with fury. It had been a long night at the hospital, Sherlock constantly refusing help from the various doctors and nurses that approached him, and John also doing the same, but his actions varied quite a bit from Sherlock's. For one, he was more polite in his refusal, and second, he did actually need their help, he was just a stubborn doctor who didn't want to be on the receiving end of the aid. It hadn't been much, but the army doctor had needed some attending to with some cuts and bruises. Their 'scuffle' with Moriarty had ended with both him and Sherlock diving into the pool as the bomb-laden jacket was destroyed by none other than John's L9A1 British Army Browning, which had been in the possession of the Consulting Detective. How Sherlock had managed to come out completely unscathed was another point entirely, but John had seemed to come off worse for wear.

That was not the point at hand, though. The point was that John had gone off the hook and blamed Sherlock for everything that had happened at the pool. Granted, Sherlock _did_ arrange to meet Moriarty there, which John did not actually know, but it's not like Sherlock had asked Moriarty to start trying to get his attention. Yes, it had fascinated him that someone was going out of their way like this to try to meet him, and in such a clever way too. Horrifying, but clever. He couldn't help it, it wasn't like he met people with the same level of intellect that he had every day now, was it? He had been interested, that's all.

Sherlock's instinct had of course been to defend himself, as had been such since a very young age. He did not listen to the little conscience he had, most likely gained with John's help, and so his side of the argument had been purely cold hatred. He had no idea why he'd risen to it, petty squabbles like this not normally being his style, but this was John he was talking to, or more likely _shouting_ at. With John, he was more human than when he was with anyone else, and weren't petty squabbles a human thing to do? He knew for a fact that it was very domestic, for sure.

But the one thing that had really gotten to him when they had been on the topic had been the fact that John had questioned why he had ever agreed to move in with Sherlock in the first place. It had brought him nothing but trouble. Even going so low as to bring Mycroft into the equation, stating how he was using John to get to Sherlock. That's when he had practically screamed at John that maybe it was better for him to go off with Sarah, if he really didn't like how they were living. Being without John now, that he was, all humanity had more or less fled him, so no reasoning was left in his mind at all. He knew for sure that John would come back in the morning, but that would probably only be to pick up all his things and 'give in his notice'.

As John had left the flat, not unlike so many other times before when he just 'needed some air', Sherlock had stood at the window looking out onto Baker Street, a scowl lining his face in the semi-darkness. His heart pounded, beating out an angry symphony in his ribcage. He felt his eyes sting but he paid no attention to that, he wasn't ready for any kind of emotion that strong. Not that John had caused it at all, no of course he hadn't. Sherlock's pride had been hurt, that's all. John's shoulders had hunched up against the cold, his back turned to Sherlock the whole way until the end of the road where he turned left. Not once had he turned back, not even to give a contempt look at the taller man. That's what made tonight different. Normally, after one of their 'domestics', as Mrs Hudson so rightfully named them, after John would leave the flat, Sherlock would stand at the window just as he was now and would watch John until he could no longer see him in his line of view. He'd see John step out onto the path, look back up and his brows would furrow and his lips would pout. If in any other situation, Sherlock may have even favoured the comment that John looked cute. No, wait, of course he wouldn't, what the hell was he thinking? Maybe it was a three-patch day, not two like he'd originally thought oh-so-long ago this morning.

Now, as Sherlock paced, the next thing that came to his mind was the possibility of going out to find John. He never had before when John had stormed out like this, but of course this situation was different. There was a relationship at stake here, one that, just two months ago, he never would have thought possible. He was not going to lose it now just because of a silly little feud. Mind made up, he retrieved his coat and scarf from the back of his bedroom door and headed out, hailing a cab within the same minute. There were only a number of possible routes that John could have taken by this time, as he'd only been out for five minutes now, so Sherlock eliminated them one by one in his mind. He decided to try Sarah's first; yes, of course he knew where she lived, he had to know in case John had decided to stay there one night and he was needed for a dire emergency. So he notified the driver of his, unfortunately, desired destination and they sped away. He refused to think of anything until he arrived, because if he did it was likely that his mind would come up with some distraction or a reason as to why he shouldn't be doing this. And he really needed to do this.

They pulled up very soon and Sherlock was out the door before the taxi had even stopped. He strode up to Sarah's apartment building and rang her doorbell. Her voice floated out of the intercom.

"Hello?"

"I need to talk to John."

There was a long pause then, as if Sarah was contemplating something. Or, perhaps, she was relaying the message to John himself.

"He's not here, Sherlock."

"Of course he is, where else would be be?"

"Look, he told me not to tell you, but I'm going to. He's gone to Bart's, don't ask me why, but he told me he just needed a little time to think."

"Ah, so he _has _been here then!"

Another pause then, and Sherlock's brain was whirring. Something was off, he knew it. If John really wasn't there then why was Sarah being so hesitant? And _bingo_, there it was, with no clues from his previous train of thought at all.

"He broke it off, didn't he Sarah?"

"Wasn't like there was much to break off though, Sherlock, was there?"

Sherlock contemplated this, at the same time ignoring the whooping sensations he was getting in his stomach and also the urge to jump for joy right there in front of Sarah's flat.

"I'm sorry, Sarah."

"No you're not. And you shouldn't be. I've had it coming for a long time now. Heck, it was there from the moment I first agreed to go on a date with John, and I just ignored it because I was a fool."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't do this, Sherlock, please. It hurts enough as it is."

"But I really don't understand what you're saying."

He heard her audibly sigh over the intercom then, and he couldn't help but feel a small tingle of guilt in the back of his mind.

"It's obvious, really, so I don't know why _you_ of all people are asking me to spell it out. John never really liked me. Of course, we're friends, but that's all he could ever manage to feel for me. There's only one person he truly loves more than anything, he just tried to ignore it and push it away. Seems like he's finally admitted it to himself."

Sherlock fought the urge to stop breathing, his head becoming light as he stood there with his hand pressed against the wall beside Sarah's buzzer.

"And who would that be?"

"Oh come on, please don't mock me, Sherlock. Don't tell me that you don't feel the same."

His heart skipped a beat then, a small surge of warmth creeping through every nerve in his body. He let out a shaky breath and shuffled his feet, trying to keep a good stance and not fall over.

"I don't know what-"

"Sherlock, don't. If you really are sorry, then you'll go to John and tell him. Make him see sense that he loves you and only you and that you love him, too. It's taken you both far too long as it is. Goodnight, Sherlock."

The intercom clicked off and the Consulting Detective stood back, frozen in that moment in time for a second. Within the next second he was dashing back down the steps and into the cab.

"St Bart's, please!"

Sherlock pushed the door to the lab open and silently strode in. He closed the door and pressed his back to it as he took in the scene in front of him. John was slowly walking around the tables and chairs, running a hand across every surface that he encountered. For a moment, Sherlock completely forgot the reason as to why he was there, he was so enchanted by John's figure casting eerie shadows over everything, and also his fingertips guiding across the smooth tabletops. But he snapped back, his eyes focusing on John's face now. For a while, John refused to look at him completely, concentrating only on his hand that was tracing everything he came across. But then he looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Breath caught in his throat, Sherlock took a few more steps in and then stopped, feeling guilt crush his chest tight as John's eyes fill to the brim with tears.

"Do you know where we are, Sherlock?"

The taller man smiled wryly, his gaze wondering for a moment before returning to John.

"Of course I do. This is the lab at St Bart's, where we first met."

John ducked his head a little, a smile of his own playing on his lips.

"Seems like a whole lifetime has passed since then, doesn't it?"

Sherlock thought on his question, really thought.

"It does, which is surprising. Any amount of time passing is normally horrifyingly slow to me."

"Anybody would think it was due to me appearing in your life."

Here, John let out a bitter laugh and Sherlock couldn't help but frown at that. Was John doubting the way he had affected his life? Was this what it was all about? That idea settled in his head and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

John looked at him properly then, walking towards him cautiously and peering at his face with a new-found interest.

"Surely it must have been plain as day to you? How much you have changed my life, changed me..."

John audibly gulped then, and he rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar sign that Sherlock had categorised as meaning he was nervous.

"Come on, what could I possibly have done? I'm just an old ex-army doctor, struggling to help his flatmate pay the bills."

"I can't believe you really don't see it."

John's eyes became wary, looking up at Sherlock with a questioning gaze on his face. Sherlock took a few cautious steps towards the shorter man, a small, hopefully warm, smile playing across his face.

"You have changed me in so many ways, Doctor John Watson. You have shown me that there is more to life worth seeing, that I don't have to fill my head with clever facts to stop my brain rotting. The only reason is you, John."

John could only stare, wringing his hands together in front of him, which Sherlock noticed was fairly new gesture. What did it mean? Frustration? Anger? Fear? For once in his life, Sherlock was absolutely stumped. There was nothing to give away John's feelings except for his hands. And that could've meant anything.

"Wow. I mean – damn, sorry. This is not turning out how I imagined. I thought you'd come here all guns blazing."

"You didn't really, did you? That's not my style John, at least not with you, and you know it."

The doctor smiled sheepishly then, letting his eyes catch Sherlock's and soften immensely. He stepped towards him again, not stopping until they were a few feet apart.

"I suppose it was kind of what I was hoping for, instead of this. This is much harder, surprisingly."

"Tell me about it."

Here, they both laughed, really laughed, and John, on instinct, touched Sherlock's arm, letting his hand rest there as their laughter died down. Where his hand touched his arm, there was a heat burning through Sherlock's jacket and he swallowed thickly, somehow finding it a little less easy to breathe.

"I'm sorry, John. For everything I said. I guess I was..."

John stared, wide-eyed, as if he knew what was coming but didn't want to hope for it too much.

"Yes?"

"I guess I was... Jealous. Yes, I was jealous."

"You were jealous of me?"

Sherlock sighed, wishing just once, and for the first and last time in his life, that he had never met John, and that he could go back to the simple life where no emotions were required from him.

"No, I was jealous of Sarah."

"Oh... _Oh_."

The implications of Sherlock's words dawned on John and he couldn't help but blush as a wave of pleasure rolled through him, despite the nagging doubt at the back of his mind telling him that he had just got his hopes up and they would come crashing down soon.

Sherlock's heart beat painfully against his chest, his head a jumble of mixed up emotions and words and thoughts. It seemed like John wasn't willing to do the talking for him, and Sarah's words floated back to him from just ten minutes ago. _'If you really are sorry, then you'll go to John and tell him. Make him see sense that he loves you and only you and that you love him, too. It's taken you both far too long as it is.'_

Gathering his wits, Sherlock steadied himself and then placed both of his hands either side of John's face. There was a look of slight alarm on the shorter man's face and Sherlock could feel and see his skin burning beneath his fingers. This was it.

"I love you, John."

John stood completely motionless for a few seconds, not even daring to blink. Sherlock felt the tension coiled in his body as if he was ready to spring, but soon his eyes softened, bringing his body with them.

"Do you mean that?"

"More than anything."

"Oh, Sherlock..."

John leant forwards, locking lips with the Consulting Detective. Sherlock sighed, his hands now cradling John's cheeks lovingly. John curled his arms around the taller man and then cheekily grabbed his rear, Sherlock gasping against his mouth quite loud enough for John to hear. They both parted, resting their foreheads together and smiling fondly.

"I love you too, Sherlock. You crazy, mad man."

"_And it feels like jealousy._

_And it feels like I can't breathe._

_And I'm on, down on my knees._

_And it feels like jealousy."_

**A/N:** So, I hope this wasn't too long for you all! It turned out to be _far_ longer than I originally planned, and this is the most I could cut it down to. However, I am quite happy with it and I hope you are too. :) Until next time! (Which shouldn't be too long, I have plenty of song choices lined up ^_^)

_Also, a huge thank you to drjamband, TuuliQ and Tennant-Obsessed for the faves, subs and review! It means the world to me :D_


	3. Amazed

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Mostly one-shot songfics, surrounding John and Sherlock. Possible variations in the future. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and all the usual favourites.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the TV show, Sherlock, or any of the songs I may use in these fics. And I don't claim to. Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the songs to their artists/bands.

_**A/N:** This time the song is Amazed by LoneStar. I was listening to it a little earlier before I started to write this chapter, and the title just reminded me of John's 'hero worship' of Sherlock, and so developed a little more into this. Hope you enjoy!_

**Amazed**

"_Every time our eyes meet,_

_This feeling inside me,_

_Is almost more than I can take."_

John stood adrift a mess of masked people, none of them recognisable to him in the least. It wasn't even as if there was a great deal of their looks hidden – after all, it was a masquerade party and so most people dressed formally, as if for a normal ball. Here, John said 'normal' in a light tone, as balls were not normal to him in the slightest. But, even so, it should have been easy to recognise a few of them, of course, because all that was used to hide their identities were small masks for the upper halves of their faces. He didn't know what it was, but he really couldn't seem to pin any names to the masses around him.

But of course, there was the man stood at the edge of the room, leaning against a pillar. Yes, a pillar, that's what was also so unfamiliar about this whole event, how expensive even the smallest things like confetti on the tables were. Anyway, the point at hand was that John wasn't able to take his eyes off this man, no matter how small the glance at him was. And the man in question wasn't helping, either. Every time John looked at him, he was there looking right back, sometimes even with the most irritatingly playful smirk on his face. John tried not to think about the man, and instead thought how unfortunate it was that Sherlock, of all the times to get ill, picked tonight. John had really been looking forward to seeing how the Consulting Detective would manoeuvre in a situation such as this. But then his eyes drifted back to the mysterious man and he couldn't help but smile when he held up his glass of champagne to tip it towards John in acknowledgement.

His eyes flashed at John with amusement as his mouth curled into a grin and then all the doctor could do was stand there motionless, his eyes going wide. That wasn't just any man stood there in disguise, the eyes gave it away. John gulped down the lump in his throat and then made his way around the dance floor, not daring to try to make his way across it. He came to stand in front of his new 'acquaintance' and stared up at him, a frown lining his face.

"I thought you were ill?"

"Really, John. Me, get ill? You didn't fall for that, did you?"

Sherlock winked at him then, and even had the nerve to grin at him with as much amusement as he could get away with. John's stomach did a flip as he tried not to stare, hypnotised, into the grey pools that were Sherlock's eyes.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd actually like to dance tonight, not just stand around looking like an over-dressed mannequin."

Sherlock looked down at him again, then, and held out his hand, which was perfectly steady, as if he did this kind of thing all the time. Which wouldn't surprise John, if he did.

"What do you say?"

John blinked, confusion racking his brain. He turned to look behind him, expecting to see someone else there that Sherlock was talking to. He turned back after seeing no one and looked up at the taller man, eyebrows furrowed once more.

"Yes, John, I was talking to you..."

"You want to dance. With _me_."

Sherlock visibly rolled his eyes then, and John knew he was holding back a sigh.

"_Yes_, I'm not just saying all of this to entertain myself."

John shuddered at the way he had elongated the 'yes' but tried to shrug it off as him being cold. The doors in the front hall _were_ letting in a bit of a draft, after all. Looking down at Sherlock's pale fingers, John swallowed again, ignoring how difficult it was for him to breathe. He also resisted the urge to pull at his collar, what with how hot it had suddenly become, too. Hopefully he didn't look too red in the face.

"Oh John, you should probably answer me soon, you know how very bored I get when I'm made to wait for something..."

John snapped back to attention, hesitantly reaching out his own hand to touch Sherlock's in the faintest of touches, as if it would attack him with any sudden movements.

"Come now, John, I'm not going to bite."

And then Sherlock, seemingly too impatient to allow John to go at his own pace, grabbed both of John's hands, placing the left on his own right shoulder and holding the right in his left hand.

"There now, wasn't so difficult was it?"

Sherlock pushed forwards, forcing the both of them to join the throng of dancing couples on the dance floor. John's face burned as he glanced around them, all of the couples being male-female to his dismay.

"Sherlock, I'm not-"

"Shhh, John, don't ruin it."

And then Sherlock started to sway, pulling John along with him in his movements. John sighed, giving up. He was in for it now.

Sherlock let a smirk play upon his lips as he locked eyes with John, the both of them quickly falling into sync with the other dancers. He would never admit it to anyone, but it was all a cover-up for how nervous he really was. He could clearly see that John's nerves were at their tether, so he'd decided to take the more confident role for the both of their sakes. His grip on John's hand and waist was steady, and he never let his gaze on the shorter man falter. There was a familiar tightening in his chest as he watched John's tan skin become tinted with red, and that it was all because of him, the affect Sherlock was having on him. The feeling in his chest was relatively new, but once it had started it had ceased to give him a moment to get his breath back. Sherlock was no idiot, he was the furthest from it that anyone could be, and so he knew what was causing this feeling. He had become slightly... enamoured, with John. Of course he'd never really acted upon it until now, but he knew his feelings were reciprocated. He just had to make John see that he wanted him to know that he wanted them to be more than they ever had been.

"So, John, no one new captured your eye yet?"

Of course Sherlock had asked that on purpose. John had been separated from Sarah for two months now, and that had happened just the day after the pool incident with Moriarty. If Sherlock was completely honest, he thought that Sarah had been downright cruel. Maybe her intentions were for the best, but could she not have waited for John to be completely eased of the shock? This coming from the high-functioning sociopath, thought Sherlock bitterly.

"Ah... No, not that I can think of."

John had failed to look at him when he had answered then, and that was the biggest give away of all. Really, John was as easy as a book to read most of the time, but there were exceptions to that every so often, of course.

"None at all?"

"Ahem - er, no... Why'd you ask?"

Sherlock grinned at him then, his amusement at John's floundering would be obvious to the both of them. This was the perfect time to hint at what Sherlock had been waiting to mention. But how to put it...

"I'm... Interested, that's all."

John's eyes became wider, his movements slightly jerky and clumsy as he tried to control his nerves, it was plain as day to Sherlock as the sun in the sky was to everyone on a cloudless, sunny day.

"Why are you interested?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know why."

Sherlock then started to stroke his fingers across John's knuckles as they danced, not trying to hide the devious smile that was on his lips. It seemed that his mind had subconsciously made his decision for him, and so he was going for it.

"Well, ah, no I don't, I'm afraid."

Sherlock chuckled then, a deep rumble in his throat that John could hear crystal clear with how close they were to each other now. When had that happened? He shivered visibly and Sherlock took that as another opportunity. He leaned in to whisper in John's ear.

"I think that shiver was a perfect piece of evidence as to why I'm interested."

Sherlock remained with his head where it was, keeping their gentle swaying motion going. His breath was touching the skin of John's neck and so the doctor kept involuntarily shuddering. Sherlock glanced at him then, and John was looking back, licking his lips nervously.

"I, uh-"

Sherlock tried not to laugh when he heard how high pitched John's voice had become and then let him continue.

"Ahem, um, could we go outside? I'm getting a little hot in here."

"I bet you are..."

This last sentence was murmured against the delicate skin right behind John's ear, and the shorter man had trouble keeping his walking straight as they turned towards the doors that lead to the back lawn of the estate. Sherlock smiled, taking in a shuddering breath as he followed close behind John, wringing his hands with anticipation. They reached the bottom of the steps and so Sherlock took John's elbow and steered him to the right, down a stone path. They rounded the corner of the building where, John noticed with a snap of the threaded nerves he barely had remaining, was almost in complete darkness, empty of any other people, and out of sight completely.

"So, um, wh – umph! "

John's pitiful attempt at small talk was stopped as Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and practically threw him against the brick wall of the estate, winding him slightly. He tried to regain his breathing as he stared up at Sherlock who's body was less than three feet away from his own.

"I know, John. I've felt the same for a while now. You've completely changed who I am, and I always thought I'd hate that, but I don't. I love you for it. You've had such an affect on me, and that's never happened with anyone before. I love you, and I want you. Completely."

Sherlock's eyes burnt into John's, leaving no room for escape. It wasn't like John was trying to fight it, anyway. He had to admit, this different Sherlock was attractive to him in so many different ways than normal. He breathed out a shaky reply.

"I love you too. Have done for so long. And I want you, so so much, I've been waiting for this day for so long..."

"Then I guess I shouldn't keep you waiting any longer, hmm?"

Sherlock's hungry smile and glistening eyes gleamed in the dark, making John's breathing ragged again. But he couldn't seem to care. He grinned lopsidedly up at the Consulting Detective, hesitantly placing both his hands on Sherlock's waist. The dark haired man seemed to take that as an invitation, because he moved in.

John was pressed up against the wall, Sherlock's body pinning him to the hard surface. The temperature was cold around them, but they were creating their own little bubble of heat as their lips met over and over, their hands searching out every inch of each other.

"I love you, John."

Sherlock's breath had tickled John's neck as he whispered this, and a strangled moan escaped John's throat.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

"Me and you forever."

John stopped then, looking at Sherlock through his lust-filled haze.

"You mean that?"

"Of course."

"Me and you forever it is, then."

Sherlock pushed forwards, his mouth capturing John's again. The two of them melted into each other, their needs, desires and dreams finally being answered. And as they continued, the stars shone down upon them, the only witness to this secret meeting of new-found lovers...

"_Every little thing that you do,_

_Baby I'm amazed by you."_

**A/N:** Yeah, the ending was cheesy, but you liked it really, didn't you? Well I did. :) Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and story alerts and the like! It really makes my day to know that there are a few people enjoying this. If I haven't replied to your review yet, do not fret, I have a very unorganised inbox, but it's almost sorted!


	4. Time Is Running Out

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Mostly one-shot songfics, surrounding John and Sherlock. Possible variations in the future. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and all the usual favourites.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the TV show, Sherlock, or any of the songs I may use in these fics. And I don't claim to. Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the songs to their artists/bands.

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock/Moriarty

_**A/N:** I think it's possibly time for some angst, and a little less fluff and slash, sorry! But don't worry, it's fun angst.. If that's even possible? I don't know how to explain it, but you'll soon find out. Maybe there's not even that much angst! The song for this chapter is Time Is Running Out by Muse. :)_

**Time Is Running Out**

"_I think I'm drowning,_

_Asphyxiated._

_I wanna break this spell,_

_That you've created."_

John's head pounded and his heart was beating painfully against his chest. He tried to control his breathing as he stood in the stall, listening to Sherlock's attempt at luring Moriarty out of his hiding place to meet with him. The army doctor wanted nothing more than to run out of there, pull Sherlock with him and make a quick getaway to the exit. But he knew that would be of no use. Moriarty had already made everything clear to him – one wrong move and Sherlock would be shot dead on the spot, making sure that John watched every flicker of pain that would flutter across the Consulting Detective's face.

"...All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this..."

_'Get out there now, John my dear.'_

John took a deep breath, ignoring the heavy weight of the bombs strapped to the front of him. He pulled back the curtain and stepped out, feeling uncomfortable, very uncomfortable in this situation. He turned to Sherlock in sync with Sherlock turning towards him, and he cringed, noting how alike they'd become in such a short space of time. Moriarty whispered in his ear once again, and he blinked, putting on his best poker face.

"Evening... This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared, as if stunned, and John flinched internally, wondering whether he suspected him of being the cause of all this.

"John..."

His eyes stung now, tears prickling at the very corners, threatening to spill at any second. He blinked furiously, knowing that Moriarty had his eyes and ears watching the whole area, so if he did something uncalled for, Sherlock would know about it. But it hurt so much to hear Sherlock say his name like that. As if he really couldn't believe that this was happening. It was as if he'd put so much trust in John to be the good guy, and that he knew that John could never do anything like this. It was good to hear how much Sherlock respected him, but right now, all that he cared about was getting Sherlock to safety, and he couldn't do that if he kept on doing things that Moriarty had not planned.

"Consulting Criminal... Brilliant..."

"Isn't it?... No one ever gets to me... And no one ever will..."

"I did."

"You've come the closest, now you're in my way!"

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did..."

Sherlock was caught halfway. On one side, there was John, dear John the army doctor, his loyal friend and colleague, strapped to as many bombs as Moriarty could make fit to his front. But then there was Moriarty himself, so utterly brilliant and clever, something he'd been searching for all his life, someone that could challenge him in ways that no person ever had. John was not as clever as the both of them, of course he wasn't, but sometimes he had come damn close, in terms of his mini-deductions and his logic on human nature. Moriarty, though, didn't side with Sherlock. He wanted to test him, push his boundaries and make him dance. John could be challenging, too, of course he could. Every day, Sherlock would learn new things about the man, and it kept him completely satisfied. It also earned the man a great deal of respect from Sherlock, and he didn't give it out on a regular basis. But right now, he had a choice to make. Did he take a risk and play with Moriarty some more, test the Consulting Criminal's boundaries as he'd done to him, or did he do the logical thing, the _right_ thing, and work to save John as soon as possible?

His head buzzed, possible outcomes flitting across his mind, discarding them or keeping them as back-ups, none of them actually being a logical solution for this problem.

John was frozen, his only movement being his eyes flickering between these two brilliant men, one horrifying, and one magnificent. He swallowed, his throat constricting as an affect of the fear he was currently becoming a slave to.

"I will stop you."

"No you won't."

Sherlock's eyes stopped to lock on his properly then, and John's breathing became difficult, each breath getting caught in his throat and then having to be forced out through his nose.

"Are you alright?"

John just stood there, wanting to talk to Sherlock and tell him to just run, leave him there so that he could get out alive, but he knew Moriarty would be watching them.

"You can talk, Johnny boy, go ahead!"

John almost shivered in terror as he heard Moriarty's voice at his neck, his warm breath tickling his skin and almost making him physically sick with worry. But even with permission, John really couldn't do this. It was literally impossible for him to speak right then. His throat had become painfully tight and it was difficult for him to swallow. So he settled for a nod, knowing that it would soothe Sherlock's worry – that is, if he was worrying right now.

"Sherlock, run!"

John had launched himself forwards, grabbing onto Moriarty and pulling him towards him with the strength only a soldier could possess. His eyes blazed with fury as he kept a strangle hold on the Consulting Criminal, looking around, from Sherlock to all corners of the swimming pool in a desperate hope to perhaps bide them some time. Sherlock had to give him credit – it was a valiant effort, he couldn't doubt that. But Sherlock had thought ahead, knew exactly how Moriarty would deal with this little problem if he really wanted to. It was just a matter of time before he did it, and he knew that John would let go of him then. If this was any other situation, Sherlock may have took the time to figure out why John was willing to give up his life in order to save Sherlock. Or maybe he wasn't so concerned with Sherlock's life and he just wanted to get rid of Moriarty. But then, he wouldn't have bothered to tell Sherlock to "run" if he wasn't fearing for his life. Sherlock let this flit across his mind for no more than two seconds, noticing how his heart was now beating madly around in his chest, but he wasn't sure whether it was from the pressure of trying to beat Moriarty, or whether it was because of the realisation that John was doing this all to save Sherlock. Because he'd willingly risk his life to save him. No one had ever done that before. And that's when Sherlock realised that he too would do the same, if he was in John's place. He would give up his life to save John. Not before trying his utmost best to get them _both_ out of course.

But now John's eyes were trained on him, his eyes widening in horror, and Sherlock knew it then. The sniper had been aimed at him, just like he thought it would. He closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping that maybe this would be a gesture that John could understand – don't give up now, keep ahold of him. Sherlock's own life doesn't really matter right now. But either John didn't understand or he wouldn't let Sherlock do that, because he quickly stepped back, releasing Moriarty, and keeping his arms well away from said Consulting Criminal.

"If you don't stop prying, I will burn you... I'll burn the _heart_ out of you..."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true..."

John's heart missed a beat at those words, and he blinked rapidly, hoping to get rid of the tears that had been quickly gathering in his eyes up until that point. His breathing was shallow, but regular, coming at quick bursts ever since the sniper laser had landed on Sherlock's forehead. If it wasn't for the bombs, he would have been at Moriarty in a flash, knocking the sense out of him – or the little which he had left anyway. He'd put so many people through such horrors, not to mention the trouble him and Sherlock had been trying to get through. This man was sick, beyond sick, and the only reason he had done it was because he was _bored_. And no, John could never believe, unlike Donovan, that Sherlock would ever do the same. Because Sherlock had people who cared for him, not just people who followed him because they were scared sick of what he would do if they didn't, like Moriarty. Sherlock could never get so low, because he had people there for him, and John would not let that happen, not even over his dead body.

John had been reluctant at first, when he'd first known Sherlock. He was wary, so very wary, of what this man was going to do next. This genius, beautiful, inhuman man. It had scared him, yes it had. But now it spurred him on. Now he did things just to see what Sherlock would do in reaction. He tried to make little deductions, just to see if the Consulting Detective would approve, give him praise, or maybe just pay him a little attention that he so craved. He didn't care if he was teased for being stupid anymore, he just wanted Sherlock's eyes to be _only_ on him for a while.

John hoped that Sherlock had a plan for the both of them to get out of this, because _he_ sure as hell didn't. And if John didn't get out alive, alive enough to tell him "thank you" and hug the man 'til they both couldn't breathe, then he didn't know whether he would forgive him. Of course he would, but he would never tell Sherlock that.

"Catch... You... Later..."

"No you won't!"

John's heart was thudding as he watched the interaction between the two of them ending. This wasn't really it, was it? Moriarty surely wasn't letting them get away? He could not believe his eyes or his ears as this whole scene was ending. It didn't seem right. The atmosphere still seemed... _Heavy_. But then Sherlock turned his head to him, his attention fully on John. His eyes searched him, and then they locked down on the bomb jacket, and, before dropping John's own gun to the floor, he surged forward, causing John to let out a little gasp in surprise. The man's long, white fingers fiddle with the zip on the coat.

"Are you alright?... _Are_ you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine..."

Sherlock fussed over him, trying with haste to pull off the jacket when it was clearly still attached to John's arms.

"I'm fine, _Sherlock_... _Sherlock_!"

Now he had flung the jacket well out of their reach and both of them were breathing heavily, the night's events slowly catching up with them.

"I'm glad no one saw that..."

"Hmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk..."

"People do little else..."

All awkwardness seemingly gone, Sherlock then grinned at John, a little of their tension eased away in that one simple exchange. John's earlier feeling had been right, though. The atmosphere was still heavy, and for a good reason.

"Sorry, boys! I'm _so_ changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it _is_ my _only _weakness. You can't be allowed to continue... You just can't... I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say had already crossed your mind!"

John stared up at Sherlock, their only hope resting in his hand. He dared not to look at Moriarty, standing down at the 'Deep End', because if he did he would not be held responsible for his actions. Or the consequences of those actions, either. Sherlock turned to him, and John nodded, knowing that if _he _knew the only solution, then of course Sherlock had figured it out moments before him. John was trusting him with his life, with both of their lives. He would get them out of this. They'd both come out of this alive, _together_.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours..."

And then Sherlock turned, first aiming the gun at Moriarty, but slowly lowering it towards the jacket holding all of the bombs. John's life rested in the palm of Sherlock's hands, and right in that one moment. The last thing John saw was Sherlock's beautiful, pale, calculating face, glaring daggers at Moriarty just before the world went up in fire.

John gasped, feeling his lungs burning with smoky air as he surfaced from the water, trying desperately to cling to his sanity as he struggled to swim to the edge of the pool. He felt a hand gripping around his waste, and he turned his head, saw Sherlock pulling him along as he swam, a grim determination on his face. John's shoulder felt like it had been torn open, but he knew that was just the old torn tissue giving him grief. He could feel that the real pain was in his left leg, not a psychosomatic pain this time. It was burning, not just aching. But he still pushed forward with all of the strength he could muster. They reached the side, and Sherlock clambered out, keeping a hold of John's arm until he was fully on solid ground and then pulling him from under his armpits, carefully avoiding his shoulder, John noticed.

"Just keep looking at me, John, don't look anywhere else. Follow me, follow my face. Look into my eyes, that's where you are, John..."

John stumbled across debris that was strewn across the floor, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. He listened to the taller man's every word, never disobeying him in the least. Finally, they were outside. John could tell from the chill that was now cutting against his cheeks. The sound of sirens filled the air and carried on the wind, but Sherlock persisted in keeping John's attention. Sherlock placed both of his hands on either side of John's face and rubbed small soothing circles on both his cheeks, achieving a relaxing sensation over the whole of his body. John softened, his body no longer coiled like a spring. He watched Sherlock's eyes watch him, and noticed how comfortable he'd be to stay like that forever. Sherlock leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, smiling lightly when he pulled back.

"Come on, let's get you sorted out."

"Okay..."

"And afterwards, I promise we'll go to Angelo's, and we'll both eat, alright? Might even consider calling it a date, if you're lucky."

Sherlock released John's face, but then took his hand, not seeming to care if anyone saw them. As they turned to walk towards the ambulance, Sherlock winked at him and grinned, assuring John that everything might perhaps go back to normal one day. Or whatever their "normal" was...

"_Our time is running out._

_Our time is running out._

_You can't push it underground._

_You can't stop it screaming out._

_How did it come to this?"_

**A/N:** Well, I was just as surprised at how that turned out as you all probably are! I don't know how I got to that at the end, but it felt right, and I could see them actually doing that, so I think it's alright. Hope you enjoyed! :)


	5. Kickstarts

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Mostly one-shot songfics with real plots, surrounding John and Sherlock. Other pairings if the song fits. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and all the usual favourites.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the TV show, Sherlock, or any of the songs I may use in these fics. And I don't claim to. Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the songs to their artists/bands.

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

_**A/N:**_ _So, as requested by my lovely, amazing friend Charlotte (reincarnatedwitch, go check her out! :D), the song this time is Kickstarts by Example. It was on my list to do anyway, but I was stuck as to which song to do next and she not-so-subtly hinted at this one to be done soon. :) So, here it is! Hope you enjoy._

**Kickstarts**

"_You want me to come over, I got an excuse._

_Might be holding your hand, but I'm holding it loose._

_Go to talk, then we choke, it's like our neck's in a noose._

_Avoid the obvious, we should be facing the truth."_

John was sitting on the edge of his bed, his fingers at his temples as his ears practically bled from pain that was caused by the wailing violin downstairs. His head was screaming at him to stomp down those stairs and strangle the bloody mad man, but his heart was telling him to just wait for a little while longer, Sherlock would stop it when he got tired. Inside, he knew for a fact that Sherlock would probably not tire for the whole night, playing until late morning. John would most likely get an hour's sleep at the most. Couldn't Sherlock play anything that sounded relatively like an actual song?

As if Sherlock read his thoughts, the mindless screeching stopped, switching to a smooth melody with deep, pitiful moans that were dragged out for long moments. Then there were sweet, high notes, flickering in and out between the lows. John sighed, dragging himself from the mattress and padding down the stairs. He stopped at the door to the front room, leaning against the wooden frame and smiling softly to himself as the music was louder here, but not annoyingly so, gently caressing his previously-in-pain ears. Sherlock's head was turned slightly away from his as he played, but John saw a little smile appear on his lips too, crinkling the corners of his mouth.

xxxxx

Trying hard not to slam the door in frustration, John entered the flat, finally, after a long monotonous day at the surgery. He dropped his bag and coat as soon as he passed through their door, flopping down onto the sofa. He threw his head back in exhaustion, pressing the palms of his hands to his face, sighing in relief when the throbbing in his shoulder started to ease. But this didn't last long, as two very large, surprisingly strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him off the sofa and he felt his nerves at the end of their tether. He turned to Sherlock, fuming, his breath coming in short, deep bursts.

"Sherlock, what the _hell _do you think you're doing?!"

"Erm... It's an experiment."

"For god's sake, could you not let me at least have five minutes of peace first?!"

John's eyes searched Sherlock's face and they found his eyes, an unfamiliar emotion there. His grey eyes were shining, and he looked slightly... hurt?

"I just wanted to... Never mind."

He turned and stormed to the kitchen and John's gaze followed, lingering on the table there for a moment. Doubling back, he saw that it was completely cleared of any kind of toxic chemicals or experiments, and even more shocking – there were two plates, glasses, and a candle placed there.

"Wait, Sherlock, _wait_!"

John skipped over behind the Consulting Detective, grabbing him by the shoulders before he could go any further. He turned the taller man slightly so that he could see the man's face but also the table.

"What's all this?"

John gestured to the table in question with his hands, eyes wide and curious as they turned to Sherlock. The other man seemed to shuffle his feet and look down, before sniffing and tilting his chin out in a pompous manner.

"Well, as you were so busy at the surgery, and running incredibly late – not to mention that I was hellishly bored stuck here all day, no thanks to you, might I add – I thought I'd make you dinner."

John's eyes raked over the table, not able to help the rumble of his stomach, as if right on cue. He flinched, knowing that Sherlock would have won in this instant. He could just imagine his smirk without even having to look at him. It was practically burning a hole in his face. Reluctantly, he looked up, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Really. And I'm sorry... For nagging at you..."

The smirk turned into a full-on grin then, his eyes lighting like a candle lit by a flame.

"You're welcome, John. I hope you like it."

"Well, let's find that out, shall we?"

They both turned to sit down, John's stomach whooping a little as Sherlock looked at him in anticipation of his thoughts on the meal, a hopeful glint in his eyes. He really wanted to know what John thought, it meant a lot to him... After John had taken a bite of the pasta, the taste savouring in his mouth for a moment, Sherlock's face turned serious.

"What do you think?"

John paused for a moment, knowing that if he didn't choose his words carefully, Sherlock's ego would obviously inflate enormously. In his opinion, the pasta was probably the best damn pasta he'd ever tasted, and the mixed in tuna was enough to have him drooling. Luckily, he didn't; that would have been another thing for Sherlock to pick up on.

"It's... Well, let's just say, I've never tasted anything like it."

"In a good or bad way?"

"Good way... In fact, I have to say, it's the best pasta I've ever had the pleasure of eating. Really, it's amazing! How did you-umph!"

John did not have time to complete that question, as the man who had just previously been sitting across the table from him was practically sitting in his lap, his arms awkwardly curled around John's shoulders. It took a while for John to react, but when he did, he found himself chuckling and reciprocating the hug, earning a sort of purring sound emanating from Sherlock's body.

"Thank you, John."

Sherlock pulled away to look at John's face and he had a grin plastered on his lips, possibly stretching across the whole of his smooth, pale face. John felt his heart flutter and he just smiled back, resting his arms on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Anything for you, Sherlock."

The grin seemed to become impossibly wider, and the Consulting Detective leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to John's forehead, leaving the doctor blushing and flustered as the taller man practically fled John's lap, flying into his seat across the table. John tried not to look like a fish as he sat there open-mouthed, because he could see that Sherlock was smirking now, throwing the occasional glance at the shorter man as he began to eat his own meal.

xxxxx

A week after the dinner incident, it was the 5th November, something John had not discussed with Sherlock at all. He had a feeling that Sherlock would discard the idea of fireworks with a wave of his hand. But the morning of that particular day came around and Sherlock was up even earlier than usual – John could hear him pacing around downstairs. Knowing that he was not going to get anymore sleep that morning, despite it being a saturday, John sighed and got up. He slipped on a pair of socks before going down to see what had Sherlock on his feet so early. As he reached the front door, however, he had to stop when he heard the man talking on his phone.

"...but where will it be?."

John held his breath whilst Sherlock talked, not wanting to be discovered. The taller man sighed, evidently frustrated.

"Eurgh, you're not helping Mycroft. I'll just have to go and get some myself!"

John's brows furrowed at the mention of Sherlock's brother – he never contacted him for help with anything. Never. He heard Sherlock put the phone down, and so he carried on into the room, keeping his face as straight as possible.

"Who was that then?"

"Hmm? Oh, just Lestrade. I needed to know whether there were any cases he could get for me."

Liar.

"Uh huh. Okay then. Tea?"

"No thanks, I've got to go out for a bit."

"Oh, well... Do you know when you'll be back?"

Sherlock stopped at the door, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Should be back sometime today. Possibly before dinner. I'll text you."

And with that vague reply, he was off out the door with the air of a man who had a job to do. John just stood there for a moment, but then continued on with the morning ritual, going off to make some tea, shaking his head to himself as he did so.

Later that day, as if Sherlock had planned to arrive at that moment from the time John asked, as John was just about to put the oven on for dinner, the door to the flat opened and shut. John blinked, stepping out of the kitchen to see Sherlock with his arms full of a few boxes. His automatic reaction was to reach forward and help him, but Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"No John, you just go and sit down. I'll be right back!"

And with that, Sherlock raced back out of the front door, and John could hear him knocking on Mrs Hudson's door. _Oh god, what could he possibly doing, harassing their landlady at a time like this?_

John heard her good-natured chatter as she came out of her flat to greet the Consulting Detective and he heard their voices floating beneath him. This was only to be replaced, however, by a hoarse shout seeming to come from somewhere behind their flat. John frowned, having no clue what was going on.

"John! Come round to the back of the flat!"

Still feeling utterly clueless, John pulled on his jacket and gloves, following the way their voices had travelled just a minute ago. He stopped for as second, noticing a door open at the back of the building that he had failed to see in all the time he'd lived there. He cautiously stepped towards it and looked out. Finally, padding out into the pitch-black night, feeling the cold pinch at his cheeks, he walked into the middle of what looked like a back garden. How had he never seen this? He shivered as he stood in the dark, looking around and failing to see anything; his eyes had not adjusted yet.

"Surprise!"

Sherlock sprung out of a bush to John's right as Mrs Hudson appeared, bending down at the bottom of the garden and then rushing towards them with a smile on her face.

"You might want to stand back, John dear!"

John frowned, allowing himself to be pushed back to the door by Sherlock, who seemed rather excited. Sherlock grabbed his arm as a fizzling sound started from where Mrs Hudson had just fled.

"Watch, John!"

And then there was a high-pitched wailing as a bolt of light shot up into the air, exploding in a shower of coloured sparks. John smiled to himself, feeling very very happy that Sherlock had even known about today. He turned to the other man himself, and a grin spread across his face. Sherlock turned to him, but then grabbed his face, and turned it towards the sky.

"John, look!"

John laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He knew that Sherlock had done this just for him. He also knew that Sherlock was trying not to make a big deal out of it.

"You did this for me, didn't you?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, instead he pointed to the sky.

"There is actually a very simple science to fireworks, John. So simple that it's fascinating. And how could someone not love the colours they make, it's just -"

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, so that the detective would look at him.

"...beautiful."

"Thanks."

"I wasn't -"

"Yes you were, don't deny it. Why else would you have done this for me?"

Sherlock stood there, frozen. John's little deduction right there, with the firework's colours playing across his face, sometimes creating shadows in the hollows of his bones, was mesmerising to him. And John's hand in his was warm through his gloves, and he knew his cheeks were burning. That was a first.

"Ahem. Well, you know..."

"Thank you, Sherlock. For this. For everything."

"Anything for my blogger!"

John grinned, turning back to watch the fireworks, and Sherlock's hand tightened in his, curling his fingers around his own. John had never felt more happy.

"_Start to think it could be fizzlin' out._

_Kinda shocked because I never really had any doubts._

_Look into your eyes, imagine life without ya._

_And the love kickstarts again."_

**A/N:** So, just a little fluff there. I've got a lot of songs still lined up, I've been adding them as I've listened to my iPod these past few days, so these are really going to start getting on! And finally, I'm sorry for the lengthy wait for this, I became the worst procrastinator ever, I tell you. -_- But I hope you enjoyed it anyway! :D

_Thank you once again for any story alerts, reviews and all that. :) Means the world!_


	6. El Tango De Roxanne

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Multiple one-shots with songs as prompts. All have real plots, mostly surrounding John and Sherlock. Other pairings if the song fits. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and various others.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the TV show, Sherlock, or any of the songs I may use in these fics. And I don't claim to. Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the songs to their artists/bands.

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock.

_**A/N:** The idea for this fic has been on my mind constantly for such a long time now, and this song, I think, just fits it perfectly! The lyrics don't necessarily fit what happens in the fic, but the music behind it sure does. ;D Oh, and of course, the song is El Tango De Roxanne from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. You've probably guessed what this chapter might contain now... :P_

**El Tango De Roxanne**

"_Roxanne,_

_You don't have to put on the red light._

_Walk the streets for money._

_You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right."_

John was sitting in his chair, his face covered by his hand as he sunk further and further into embarrassment as Lestrade stood talking to them both, mostly to Sherlock, about their current case. He sunk down, down, down into the chair as they conversed, his dignity teetering dangerously on the edge of disappearing altogether. Well, it would do, if what Lestrade was saying had anything to do with it. The suspect for the murder, whom Sherlock was extremely certain had committed each and every one of them, was a renowned dancer in London, one of the best. And he regularly attended a dance school where he taught men and women of all abilities. John could easily see how this information was going to go down with Sherlock. He'd just have to wait until Lestrade was gone for Sherlock to deal the final blow.

"Thank you, Lestrade. Now, I'll see you out. John and I will be getting onto this right away."

John cringed, knowing that once Lestrade was gone, Sherlock would be back up to deal his doomed fate.

Sherlock reappeared in the room, a knowing smile on his face. John glanced up at him, one eye closed, and blushed when he saw his face.

"Looks like we're going dancing, John."

John cursed under his breath when he saw Sherlock's excited grin and just hoped that he wouldn't make a fool of himself whilst on this case. Especially if he was made to dance _with_ Sherlock.

xxxxx

"Ready, John?"

John was anything but. He was stood in the middle of the front room, his hands clenched at his sides and a firm determination set into his mind. He was not going to dance with Sherlock. No matter how much Sherlock insisted that they needed to practice so that when they went to spy on their suspect at the dance school, they wouldn't seem suspicious. He was not doing it - nothing could persuade him otherwise.

"Come on, John, it's not that bad. You're just being stubborn."

John glared at Sherlock, who now had his back to him and was fiddling with a CD player he had recently acquired especially for their 'practising'. John felt no guilt that it would go completely unused, in this situation anyway. It was Sherlock's fault for presuming that John would go ahead with it.

"I'm not doing this Sherlock, it's stupid."

"No it isn't, you're just being irrational."

John shook his head, refusing to take part at all. He stood his ground, his feet planted firmly in place and he crossed his arms across his chest. Sherlock pressed play, and John's cheeks started to burn when he heard the distinct melody of a familiar style of song. He froze – Sherlock wanted him to do the Tango. He jerked back when he felt smooth, cold fingers around his wrist and his eyes widened significantly when he saw that Sherlock was reaching for him again.

"Sherlock, what -?"

"John, this is getting very tiring. We need to do this, don't you want to help me catch the killer?"

"Don't you dare pull that one."

"I'm not pulling anything. I'm merely asking for your help."

He grasped John's hand this time and pulled him more into the centre of the room, whilst the song took off to a slow start in the background. There was a deep rumble, probably made by the cello, and he could practically feel it vibrating through the floor. It made his feet tingle, sending jolts up through the rest of his body.

"Just follow my lead, John. I'll take it slowly to start off."

Sherlock gripped John's waist and his hand, pulling him close, a little too close for comfort in John's opinion. John's blush grew even stronger as he felt Sherlock start their movements out at a slow swaying from side to side. John's feet were now planted to the spot he was currently inhabiting, refusing to completely give in to Sherlock's irritating wishes. He also kept his eyes trained downwards on said feet, so that he wouldn't do or say something he regretted if he looked at Sherlock whilst they 'danced'.

"Loosen up, John. For goodness' sake, it's just a dance."

John risked a glance upwards and saw an unreadable expression on Sherlock's face. Reluctantly, he let his feet move, taking a step to each side as they swayed together.Sherlock smiled triumphantly, as if this was the biggest victory he had ever accomplished.

"Very good. Now, let's make it a little more difficult."

Sherlock flicked the wrist holding John's hand, let go of his waist, and then John could do nothing but spin outwards at the smallest of angles. The way Sherlock was holding his wrist now left no other room for movement except that which John had just proceeded to take. He glared a little at the taller man, feeling beyond embarrassed at himself that he let himself think for the smallest of moments that he may actually enjoy this. He was getting so much of Sherlock's attention. It's what he always wanted, every second of every minute of every hour of every day. Not that he'd ever admit that to himself.

"Good. But next time, spin out further. Don't stop yourself on purpose."

John refused to comment, instead, he spun back in towards Sherlock, who took his hand and waist again. There was no way that Sherlock was going to back down with this dancing idea that he had stuck in his head, so John was going to have to step up his game. He didn't have to follow Sherlock's rules – he was going to give Sherlock as much as he got. It takes two to tango, after all.

Sherlock took a step back, pulling John with him, and so John followed suit, allowing himself to relax into the movement. He followed Sherlock's movements with as much enthusiasm as Sherlock was giving out, waltzing left, right, forwards, backwards. John felt like he was getting the hang of it. That is, until Sherlock dealt the latest hand in his card trick.

John became all bothered and hot when, quite out of the blue, Sherlock pulled him in tight to his chest, leaving a mere five inch gap between their faces. John could do nothing but stare wide-eyed at the Consulting Detective who was sporting a victorious smirk on his face.

"Do keep up, Dr Watson."

John gulped quite audibly, tripping on his own feet as Sherlock spun him outwards again. The insufferable man really wasn't helping John in his mission to completely ignore the magnetic attraction he had developed towards him. In fact, he was doing the complete opposite and pulling him in further. Maybe there was no point in fighting it. It was obvious that Sherlock would find out sooner or later, if he hadn't already, so why try and ignore it? Besides, John was finding it really hard to resist those eyes, and those irritatingly full, smirking lips. When Sherlock pulled him back in, John took a proper grip on Sherlock's shoulder and his hand, liking the feel of Sherlock's skin against his. His hands were perfectly smooth, fitting well together with his own more rough hands.

"Had a change of heart, John?"

"You could say that."

John fought back a wry grin, ultimately failing, but proceeded to follow Sherlock's lead into the dance again. He was in the woman's position after all. The music was beginning to pick up its pace quite a bit, and he found himself getting a little breathless under more than one of the current circumstances. At every opportunity that arose, he found himself glancing at Sherlock, the grey eyes piercing him with a glowing stare. And each time he did this, he felt heat rise in his neck and face, crawling across his skin like a thousand jittery spiders. If Sherlock had any inclination to his disposition, he didn't let on to him that he knew. John wasn't sure whether or not he was particularly pleased about that, but he carried on nevertheless, feeling his heart pounding in his chest with each movement they made across the floor of the living room. Sherlock whirled John around and around, his arms tightening on John's waist as he did so, and John was becoming dizzy, his mind like a whirlwind of colours, sounds, sights and sensations. With a gasp of breath in shock, John was pulled to Sherlock once more. Though this time, he thought he would try his own hand at stepping the game up higher. So, he span around in Sherlock's arms, gripping both of the Consulting Detective's hands in his and slowly lowering himself down to the ground, making sure that a part of his body was always touching Sherlock's on the way down. He felt Sherlock stiffen behind him and he bit his lip to gather his courage and made his way back up slowly, rubbing slow circles into Sherlock's hands as he did so. He turned back around, painfully slowly, and saw Sherlock's eyes blazing into his. A jolt of electricity shot through his body, lighting up every nerve and sense that he possessed. He stared back, suddenly emboldened, and resumed his dancing position, assuming that Sherlock would continue. However, he leant in to John's ear, his breath creating goosebumps all along John's neck.

"The game is on, dear Watson."

John looked back up, seeing another smirk on Sherlock smooth, pale face. He shivered uncontrollably, forcing himself to concentrate. He wouldn't lose this early on. John could now feel the beat of the music pulsing through him, and he let it drown him in the rhythm of the dance, swaying from side to side with Sherlock. They span, they shuffled, they skipped, almost knocking the breath clean out of John. But somehow he managed to keep up, feeling his body reacting to Sherlock's as if he was perfectly in tune with him.

With the tension in the room building, John felt himself flushed with exertion and also the desire to feel Sherlock pull him closer like he had done so many times during their dance. But every time he got close, Sherlock would pull away at the last minute, a heated smirk taking place on his lips as if he'd gotten all the answers he needed from that one move. And John knew that he had figured him out. Hell, he'd probably known weeks before this dance had even taken place, but John thought that Sherlock had had an ulterior motive for them practising this dance. As much as it may have been that it would have helped them with the case, he had a suspicious feeling that it was also a way for Sherlock to prove a theory about John. And the ex-Army Doctor was all too aware of how Sherlock's attentions to him had developed during the course of the evening. With a sinking heart, John heard that the song was coming to a close, the vibrations of the instruments dying down gradually one by one, coming to a dramatic end.

As if noticing at the same time as John, Sherlock gave him one last sharp twirl, this time bringing John around to wrap an arm around his waist when he pulled him back in. And then once he was secure in his arms, as quick as he'd lured him in, he spun him out, but this time tightening the hold on his hand and pushing forcefully enough that John yelped as he found himself falling backwards. But, just inches above the floor, John had a startling revelation, making heat flush his features with increasing rapidity. He was hanging, almost in mid air, cranking one eye open at Sherlock. The Consulting Detective seemed to be having no trouble holding him there, grasping only at his one hand with a firm grip. A deliciously smug smile was playing on his lips, seeming to relish in the fact that he had John in this position and that John indeed knew what he'd done; he'd dipped him, plain and simple. It was only normal, considering they had been dancing, but now it had John's pulse racing, what with him practically being at Sherlock's mercy and all. All too soon, or after what seemed like an eternity, depending on which way John decided to look at it, Sherlock wrenched him back up... and straight to his lips. John's eyes flew wide open, searching Sherlock's face, but he could practically find nothing from his face. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and all John could do was take that as a good sign. Sighing, he melted into the kiss, letting his own eyes drift closed. Sherlock gripped him around the waist, and pulled back after a while, leaning his forehead against John's.

"Gotcha."

"_Roxanne._

_Why does my heart cry?_

_Roxanne._

_Feelings I can't fight._

_Roxanne,_

_You don't have to put on that red light._

_Roxanne,_

_You don't have to put on that dress tonight._

_Roxanne."_

**A/N:** Dear. Lord. That took _forever_ to finish! And I feel a little disappointed with it, but maybe that's just me... Anyhoo, I hope y'all like it and I promise to try and update _very_ much quicker next time. I don't quite know what got into me with this chapter :\

_A special thank you to kendra42 for the story alert! And of course, to anyone who reads this, thank you so so much for putting up with me. I honestly do try my best, I've just become the worst procrastinator ever!_


	7. Bloodstream

**A Study In Song**

**Summary:** Multiple one-shots with songs as prompts. All have real plots, mostly surrounding John and Sherlock. Other pairings if the song fits. Will contain fluff, slash, angst and various others.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the TV show, Sherlock, or any of the songs I may use in these fics. And I don't claim to. Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the songs to their artists/bands.

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock. Can be seen as romantic _or_ platonic.

_**A/N:** I've been listening to this a lot lately, and the whole 'Sherlock doing drugs' thing is quite popular in fics I've read, and it sort of fits with this song. Except, he's not doing drugs, he's... well you'll find out. ;D The song is Bloodstream by Stateless._

**Bloodstream**

"_Wake up,_

_Look me in the eyes again._

_I need to feel your hand,_

_Upon my face."_

Sherlock paced around the flat restlessly, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Sleep would not come to him and his mind would go mad with boredom if he didn't do something to occupy it immediately. His steps echoed around the dark silence of the flat as he ever-so-slowly wore down the floorboards of the living room and then moved on to the kitchen. He ran irritated fingers over the edges of the surfaces he found there, eyes flickering over all his ongoing experiments and calculating their progress. None of them were ready for him to collect results from yet. Agitated, he made his way to the stairs and climbed them two at a time, ready to knock down John's door before his conscious drifted a voice into his head; John was sleeping. Sherlock stood back from the door and took a breath before hesitantly placing his hand on the doorknob and turning it slowly, so as to not make a sound and wake John up. He had to squint when he first opened the door as it was practically as black as the night sky outside in John's room. But shortly afterwards, he looked to the left and could make out John's form huddled underneath the duvet on his bed. Sherlock shut the door and crept silently over to his sleeping mass and sat down softly on the bed. He watched John's body rise and fall with deep breaths, clearly indicating that he'd been asleep for a while. Sherlock was envious – he never seemed to be able to catch sleep that easily. He smiled as he heard John making soft sounds in his sleep and placed a hand on the bed to support himself as he leaned over a little to better see John's face. Worn by time, war and a lifetime of worry and stress, this was the face of a man who had lived life to the full. That's why Sherlock loved John. He had all that experience, all that knowledge and wisdom, and probably so many bad memories, yet he kept his spirits up, even when Sherlock blew up the kitchen or flooded the bathroom.

John stirred in his sleep, shifting ever so slightly under the covers. His eyebrows were drawn down over his closed eyes and his face showed discomfort. Sherlock quickly linked the actions and expression and made a deduction – John was having a nightmare. Sherlock shifted carefully from his position and crawled up to sit next to John's sleeping form on the mattress, head against the wall and pillows resting against his lower back. He reached out one of his hands and placed it on John's back. The touch was light at first, but when it didn't upset John further, he carefully moved his fingers so that they were making circle motions against his pyjama shirt. He looked down to see John's reaction, and the angry line that his eyebrows had formed before now had softened a little and his eyes were less squeezed tight than before. Sherlock smiled lightly and continued the motion for a while. When John's discomfort passed, Sherlock stopped the movements and just let his hand rest there for a while. Listening to the quietness of the flat, Sherlock found now that he was revelling in it. There were no distractions from his time here with John, and he was grateful for that. When morning came, it was likely that John would wake and grumble about something Sherlock had done again, and then go off to the surgery where he wouldn't have to be in Sherlock's company for the whole day. And then, as if to further avoid Sherlock, would probably go out to dinner with Mary or Martha or Melissa, whatever his girlfriend's name was these days. Resisting a sigh, Sherlock scooted a little closer on the bed and watched John for a little longer, just looking, not anything else. The silence was good – he could reflect on John and him. Him and John. Them. Was he really allowed to use their names like that? Wasn't that just reserved for couples? Sherlock shook his head with a roll of his eyes and sighed. He really had no clue into relationships apart from those involved in his cases and John's brief ones with his past and present girlfriends. Sherlock looked around the dark of the bedroom and felt himself comforted; here, he didn't need any experience. He had formed his own relationship, not romantic, but platonic, and for the moment it was enough. The darkness let him sit there surrounded by its warmth, just the thought of his and John's friendship, and he smiled.

When Sherlock thought that John had settled now for the rest of the night, he did something expected and shuffled closer to the taller man's body. Sherlock froze, eyes wide, as he made sure not to disturb John in his movements. He had noticed that, at least when it came to Sherlock, John had a thing with personal space and boundaries, and so if he woke up to find he was this close to Sherlock, he'd throw a fit. When he was settled again, face buried in Sherlock's hip, Sherlock moved his arm so that it was curled around John's back. He was only touching him lightly, but he could feel the heat of John's skin radiating through his pyjamas and into his own body. Memories of nicotine patches and needles drifted into Sherlock's mind at the feeling John's heat was producing in him, but he knew this was different. He wouldn't, and couldn't, use John as a means to gaining a more open mind, it was physically impossible. And neither would he ever want to do it either – John was not a replacement or substitute for nicotine or cocaine. John was a person whom Sherlock loved and the dark-haired man was now coming to realise how much he had gotten under Sherlock's skin. Obviously it had begun during what John had ridiculously named the 'Study In Pink' case, when Sherlock had realised it was John who had shot the cab driver. Never had anyone risked so much to save Sherlock. Of course, it had irritated him that he hadn't been able to find out whether he would have won the game or who the man's mysterious sponsor was, now known as Jim Moriarty obviously, but it had gone straight to what little of a heart he had had then. The most obvious was when he had gone to confront Moriarty at the swimming pool and then he had seen John. Everything had been different when the Consulting Criminal had brought John into it.

Sherlock stayed sat there for the rest of the night and early into the morning, not minding one bit when John had eventually shuffled so close to him that he was practically on his lap and Sherlock's hand was in the sandy blonde hair. He had soothed John in his sleep by massaging his scalp with his fingers and he grinned when John had let out a sound not so different from that of a cat purring.

When John woke up the next morning, he felt refreshed and relaxed, noting that his shoulder was aching less and he did not remember any particularly harsh nightmares. He smiled, feeling in such a good mood that he thought of sticking around long enough in the morning to quiz Sherlock on his latest case instead of dashing out as early as possible to the surgery. As he moved to get up, he froze when he felt something particularly unusual in his bed. Looking up from where he was laid, he almost fell off the bed with shock when he thought to himself how much of an idiot he was for not realising as soon as he had woken up. There, with whom John practically had his head in his lap, was Sherlock, sleeping peacefully even whilst in such an odd position. He was sat up with his head against the wall and a smile on his face. Even after the initial shock, John couldn't help but smile softly at the man and realised with a start that it was probably him who was the reason for his lack of discomfort. John laid back down for a while, not wanting to disturb the slumber of the Consulting Detective. Besides, this had opened up an opportunity for some serious thinking on John's part...

"_I think I might have inhaled you._

_I can feel you behind my eyes._

_You've gotten into my bloodstream._

_I can feel you floating in me."_

**A/N:** Was that quite short? I'm not sure, but I liked it. :) This may possibly be continued in another chapter, from mostly John's POV, but of course with another song as a prompt. But I'll make it so that they're linked. :D

_Special thanks to drjamband for your review, and to lovely Charlotte (reincarnatedwitch) for your continued support!_


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